thrust.

Kesley grimaced and groped for the other man's eyes. In the darkness of the copse not even the moon aided vision; it was impossible to see more than a foot or so, and Kesley contended with half-seen shapes rather than men.

The bandit twisted upward sharply. A bolt of pain shot through Kesley's arm. Numbed, he let the knife slip from his grasp. It vanished underfoot.

"Dale?" The half-grunt came from van Alen, somewhere to the left. "The blaster's dead."

"And I've lost my knife!"

"Try to get free. If we can slip through them and outside the copse, we can grab their horses and—"

"We also speak English, norteamericano," a wry voice said suddenly. "Your strategy is no secret."

Kesley turned and jammed a fist into someone's stomach. He felt arms groping for his arms, and shrugged himself free. He stepped back, kicking out with his heavy boot.

His foot struck—but as it did, someone else hit him from behind and knocked him off balance. He slipped, rolled over and tried to pull himself up. Three men were on him in an instant, pinioning him.

He heard the click of a gun's safety going off, and a quiet voice said, "Hold fast or we will explode your head."

Instantly Kesley stiffened. "I'm holding fast," he said. He saw no point in resisting, not with three men squatting on him and a gun pointed at his head.

A short distance away the sound of struggle could still be heard. Good for van Alen, Kesley thought.

A knife flashed suddenly. A man howled: "Ricardo, you have cut me!" Angrily, in Spanish.

Spanish? Where did I learn Spanish? Kesley wondered.

He heard van Alen's ironic chuckle. "How are you doing, Kesley?"

"I'm caught. They're sitting on me."

A pause. Then: "Too bad, Dale." Van Alen's deep voice sounded distant and troubled now. "I'm going to have to—"

His voice broke off abruptly. After a moment of silence, Kesley heard footsteps pounding rapidly away through the forest. Van Alen running away? Why?

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